Saxton Powers Hatalia
by RayLi1992
Summary: For more than a century, the rivalry between Blutarch and Redmond Mann has raged on, culminating into a conflict involving eighteen mercenaries fighting over useless bits of land. Decisive victories on the part of the RED team have forced the Administrator, her conviction to keep her job strong, to hire a new team of mercenaries to keep the REDs in check. Cover: Violet-Kitsune-Lila
1. A New Enemy

**Hello all who are reading this. I was on TF2 the other day, W,S,A and D in one hand, mouse in the other. I was PLAYING, not trading in hats, by the way. Whenever one dies in TF2, they have a little twenty second gap before they respawn. Twenty seconds (can be a lot less depending on the team and game mode). After three deaths, that would be one minute wasted staring at someone else's movement, painfully waiting for the character to just freaking respawn already. It would only take eighteen deaths to waste one tenth of an hour. Who wants to waste that much time?! Time is short. We can never slow it down. So I opened up a stash of Hetalia and started reading. Then I got the idea. It felt so euphoric back then and I get shivers even now. Fast forward a day and you get the first chapter of Saxton Powers Hatalia (yes, it's spelt HATalia). Please read, review and subscribe!**

**Disclaimer: Neither Hetalia nor TF2 are mine. TF2 is the property of Valve Corporation, whereas Hetalia is the property of Himaruya Hidekaz.  
**

* * *

Silence loomed inside the Administrator's room, omnipresent, infusing every single piece of steel, every machine, every CCTV screen like a silent, ever-present ghost. About ten feet above the metallic floor hung a dismal red light, barely allowing one to make out the outlines of the various machines and screens. A few power generators below the room made themselves audible as a perpetual whirr that faded in to the quiescence the longer one spent in this funereal chamber. Near the front of the room sat a woman clad in a dark, lavender overcoat, slouching slightly in her navy blue office chair, staring— perhaps absentmindedly— at the massive security screens that covered the wall in front of her. All quiet. All silent. Nothing except the ruins and bodies of the BLU team that once fought so valiantly over these grounds. She pressed a button, flicking one of the screens so that it showed another part of the battlefield. Removing her long, thin pipe from her teeth with an air of averseness, blew a puff of smoke, placed the pipe between her teeth, then massaged her head and looked back up at the footage.

A loud beep was heard, and a light flashed yellow on her expansive gridiron panel for a few seconds, then dissipated. Sighing, the Administrator flicked a switch and rotated her chair to face the locked steel door behind her.

A crack appeared, stretching down the middle of the black-and-yellow stripes of the room's door, then steadily grew wider, revealing a dull silver corridor illuminated by a series of bright lights. The Administrator instinctively squinted, shielding her face from the stream of brightness that rushed in from the corridor like water along a river. She placed her hand down, and began to be able to make out the figures of two people who stood in front of her.

The first was a young man attired in a handsome olive-green military uniform, a beret tilted slightly to the left sitting atop his matted blonde cut that reached all the way down to his chin. A pair of black gloves covered his hands. His trousers were khaki coloured and worn quite low, and his black, service-issue boots reached all the way up to his knees. He did not give the impression that he was in the military, or had stayed for very long; he stood, leaning over ever so slightly to the right, his hand around the shoulders of a small girl.

The girl stood, arms obediently lowered and allowing the man to grasp her tightly. Her head continuously turned to face the man's, as if unsure and worried as to what he would do next, giving him an impression of unpredictability. Her hair was the same shade and style as her brother's, with a pretty blue bow adorning it instead of a beret. She wore a charming velvet dress that stretched up to her knees, long socks and a pair of polished black ballet shoes covering the rest of her legs.

"Ah, you must be Mr. Basch Zwingli. Come in." the Administrator ordered, an air of distrust around her voice. The man stepped in and the girl, still clasping onto his hand for protection, tottered in, much to the Administrator's displeasure.  
"Nii-san, who is this creepy witch?" the girl asked, bringing his hand closer to her chest and taking a small step back. The Administrator, not noticing, narrowed her eyes and asked, "Who is this twerp?"  
"I-I'm not a twerp!" the girl snapped.  
"Get her out. Now please, Mr. Zwingli." the Administrator ordered. The girl growled, grimacing at the Administrator. Zwingli motioned for her to stop, and faced the dour old woman sitting in the chair.

"Meet my sister, Lili. She will not bother us. I promise. You won't, right, sis?" Zwingli said, taking out a Toblerone from a pocket in his pants, snapping a generous helping off and giving it to the little girl.

"No, I won't! I promise, Nii-san!" Lili said, biting off a chunk. She retired to a corner of the room where she busied herself with trying to figure out what each individual switch did. Zwingli stood erect in front of the Administrator.

"You remember why I called you here." the Administrator said.  
"Of course I do." came the reply. "To supply you with a stream of new recruits for your… business."  
"Exactly." The Administrator moved a switch, and a series of screens popped up, each one depicting scenes of destruction, or bits of land immersed in flames, bent cartridges and the smoldering remains of weapons. A slumped over figure, an open wound on the back of his neck, a sword and shield lying a few inches away from his wounded hands. A lanky, masked mercenary, clothed in a navy blue tuxedo engulfed in flames. A dark-haired figure wearing a lab coat, large, reddish-brown stains of blood and soil marking it from top to bottom. Its face was twisted into a look of shock and utter fright, as if the last thing it saw before it died was permanently inscribed into his lifeless brain. It was wearing a large box on his back, electric blue sparks occasionally scampering up his body and dissipating into the sandy dust below.

Zwingli stared across at the screen, before muttering to himself, "I never enjoyed war."

Hearing this, the Administrator turned to him and wryly said, "You aren't going to participate. Your conscience will be clear by the time this is over. And my head will be as well. Do I make myself heard?"

Zwingli nodded.

"What you will get is money. Lots of it. Your banks will be so full they're going to be more stuffed than the Heavy Weapons guy after eating his sandvich allowance. And—" the Administrator smiled to herself—"you can give all the chocolates you want to your little friend. Understood?"  
Zwingli nodded. "Understood."

The Administrator turned to him and gravely said, her intonation dry and sinister, "That is, if you can train your recruits so they can keep those REDs at bay. Am I understood?"  
"Yes."  
"Then go." She dismissed him with a wave of his hand, and he turned to his sister, motioning her to come.

"Enjoy your chocolate?" he said.  
"Yes, Nii-san!" Lili said, grinning widely. Zwingli smiled back. He turned to the door and took a few steps.

"Door, please." Zwingli asked politely. The Administrator opened it, and the two walked out. He turned to the Administrator, letting his sister walk a few paces in front of him.

"Oh, by the way, the recruits call me Switzerland." he said.  
"Switzerland." the Administrator repeated.  
"And they know her as Liechtenstein." Switzerland said, pointing to his sister. The Administrator, still facing away from him, repeated, "Liechtenstein."  
"Just so you know."  
"Thank you, Mr. Switzerland."  
"It's just Switzerland."  
"Hmm?"  
"Never mind."

And turning back, he straightened his beret, and walked away. The Administrator closed the door, continuing her silent vigil at the glass-covered walls above.


	2. Scout's Dishonor

**Here's Chapter 1 of Saxton Powers Hatalia. Enjoy!**

"Sixteen seconds eighty-seven. Not good enough, Italy!" Switzerland barked, Italy panting repeatedly, sweat dripping from the tip of his forehead onto the grey concrete floor below. Bent over and trying to grasp every single bit of oxygen that he could, Italy sank down, resting his back on the concrete barrier used for firing practice. Switzerland fixed his collar, grabbed Italy's, then pulled it and yelled into his face.

"FASTER! The RED scout can make it all the way to that barrel and back in TWELVE seconds! I only asked for FOURTEEN!"  
"V-Ve?"  
"Now do it again!"

Italy's training, and the rest of the Team's, all took place in an abandoned military hangar. Saffron barrels of kerosene fuel sat, the paint completely worn away in parts, filling up unwanted space in the corners. Dusty crates full of weapons and ammunition were piled up at the sides, so old and so corroded that they would never be able to fire again, therefore allowing Switzerland to deem training here safe. A few narrow slits in the ground concealed a myriad of cardboard figures, ready to spring out and stare down whatever lay behind the barrier at the back of the room. This barrier, for now at least, lay under the ground, leaving the way to Switzerland's marker, a little red flag some fifty metres away clear.

"Again!"

Switzerland placed his finger on the 'start' button of his stopwatch. Italy dragged himself onto his feet, wiped the sweat off his brow, then stared down the red flag with the intensity of a mercenary to a control point. Switzerland shouted, "Go!"  
"Ve!"

Italy took off, speeding towards the red flag. He touched it. Switzerland looked at the stopwatch. Seven seconds. Good so far. Nimbly turning around, he faced down Switzerland and launched himself off the ground. He ran, throwing his body forward with each stride he took. Halfway there. Switzerland did another time check. Thirteen seconds. Could he make it? Probably not. Italy didn't care. He kept trying, his face strained and red from the effort. About half a metre away, he did a sort of jump, his body going limp in mid-air. He landed, face planted firmly into the barrier. Switzerland stopped the timer.

"Fifteen seconds nine. Better. Again!"

Italy stared at Switzerland as if the little blonde man just ate his beret.

"V-VE?!"  
"Again!"  
"I-I can't…"

Switzerland's face twisted into an expression of anger. He took out his red pocket knife, the white cross glinting in the glimmering sunlight filtering in from the windows above. Swiftly flicking a retractable blade, he held it about two inches away from Italy's neck.

"Look here, Italy. I never liked you. Yet I hired you. Why? Because I wanted a job. A job that will pay me a very, very decent amount. And you? You can buy every single pizza in the world. Hell, you can even open up your own pizza shop. And all you need to do is to co-operate with me. Just. Run. Faster." Switzerland growled.

"But-but- I'm out of energy!"  
"Do I look like I care?" Switzerland said coldly.  
"Please, Signore Switzerland!" Italy pleaded, hands folded together. Switzerland thought of an idea. He reached into a rucksack that he brought with him, taking out a slice of pizza, an ample helping of tomatoes, pepperoni and other such slices that were lightly covered in a thin, viscous layer of cheese.

"You know you want this, Italy." Switzerland coaxed.  
"V-v-v-VE?!"  
"Here, here's a good boy…!" Switzerland said, rubbing the thing all over his face. Italy got on his hands and knees, salivating wildly.  
"Come on, come on…."  
"Give it to me! Per favore, Switzerland!"  
"You want it?"  
"VE!"  
"Then get it!"

Switzerland drove his knife into the slice, shocking Italy.

"Wait. Good boy."

Italy obediently sat down. Switzerland stabbed the knife-with-pizza through an old, grey pillar, just out of Italy's reach. Italy ran over like a rabid dog, clawing at the box but failing to get at his beloved pizza.

"Now run! If you do what I tell you, you get it!"  
"V-ve…!"

Italy lined up on the starting point as Switzerland reset his timer.

"Three…two…one…Go!"

Italy took off, with all the ferocity of a charging bull. Each stride was laced with intent, each bound fuelled with the golden promise of a slice of pizza all to himself. He touched the flag. Six and a half seconds. He turned, staring the pizza down. Seven seconds. One-quarter of the way there. Eight seconds. Halfway there. Ten seconds. Three quarters. Twelve seconds. With one last burst of energy, Italy flung himself past the line, landing straight onto Switzerland's body, knocking him over, much to his displeasure. The pizza-obsessed man looked up, eyes gleaming and wide.

"Pizza?" Italy asked, eyes gleaming and full of hope.  
"Fourteen seconds thirty three." Switzerland replied, pushing the irresponsible young man aside. Italy began wailing, hugging Switzerland's leg, his tears staining Switzerland's pants.  
"No. Knock the last thirty three off and you get it." Switzerland stubbornly snapped.  
"Please, Switzerland?!"  
"No."  
"PLEASE, Switzerland."  
"I said no."  
"PLEASE, GIVE ME THE PIZZA!"  
"No!"

Switzerland's phone rang. Ignoring the pitiful sobbing Italy, he answered it.

"Hello?" Switzerland said.  
"I told you to make it quick. He should be finished by now. Why can't he run quickly enough yet?" came the sour voice of the Administrator.  
"How are you staring at me?!"  
"The CCTVs. They're everywhere."  
"Even the recreation rooms?"  
"Yes."  
"The corridors?"  
"Yes."  
"The bathrooms?" Switzerland asked, sarcastically.  
"Yes…wait, never mind."  
"What?!"  
"The point is, you have to get him trained by the end of the day. Understand?"  
"The point is, you do not know how incompetent this thing is!" Switzerland shouted, allowing Italy's prolonged moans to be heard by the Administrator.  
"I hired you to train your troops, to get a team together and to put up a resistance. If you don't, I'm afraid you won't be buying your sister any more frilly dresses anytime soon. So I recommend that you give him the pizza for now, if only to shut him up. Deal?"  
"Deal."

The Administrator hung up, and Switzerland reluctantly walked over to the crate where Italy's beloved pizza hung. Drawing the knife, he took the pizza and half-heartedly threw it onto Italy's head. The elated Italy exclaimed, "Ve!" then proceeded to stuff it into his mouth. Switzerland picked up his rucksack, absentmindedly took a little piece of cheese out, took a small bite, the flavour running through his mouth as he stared at his erratic little pupil.

* * *

Switzerland came out of a room at the back of the hangar, his bag bulging noticeably, the curious sound of metal jingling audible. Italy put down the last slice of pizza that he was eating and stared at the young man. With considerable effort, Switzerland dragged the iron door, large blots of rust from corrosion marking its exterior, shut, then took a large, dusty iron key and locked it. Placing the key in his backpack, he walked to Italy, picking up his pizza and placing it in the young man's lunchbox.

"Time's up, Italy. Now for weapons practice."

Italy nodded, albeit a little disappointed. Weapons were nothing new to him. Switzerland reached into his bag, taking out a shotgun. The barrel was sawn off to about half its normal length. A metal grip for the gun jutted out of the handle, enough for Italy to fit his middle, ring and little fingers in. Another ring, joined to the grip, contained the trigger, a curved piece of metal that Italy wrapped his finger around. Nonchalantly twirling the weapon, his finger slipped and he accidentally fired the gun, the bullets whizzing a few centimetres off Switzerland's cheek.

"WHAT THE HELL, ITALY!"  
"I-I'm sorry!"  
"You clumsy buffoon! Didn't Germany teach you how to turn on the safety?"  
"V-ve?"  
"The SAFETY, Italy!"

Switzerland grabbed the gun, bending Italy's fingers back at an excruciating angle, forcibly flicking the safety switch. Bringing the gun up to Italy's face, Italy's arm being twisted as he did so, Switzerland screamed, "This is how you make sure you don't kill the wrong person at the wrong time!"  
"I-I'm sorry!" Italy muttered, trying to slink away from Switzerland's death grip. Eventually Switzerland's anger subsided, and he told Italy to move to the starting point. Switzerland drew a remote from his pocket and tapped a few buttons. About a dozen cardboard figures sprang up from the ground, each one bearing a slightly different resemblance. One was of a Soldier, rocket launcher primed and at the ready. Another was a Spy, back straight, his pistol pointing upwards. A Medic with a cold stare, his Medigun pointed at an angle. An Engineer, leaning against another cardboard model of a Sentry Gun. Italy readied himself.

"I want you to shoot every single one of those down. Quickly!"

Switzerland raised his right hand in the air. Italy gulped. Bringing his hand down, he barked, "Go!" Italy obeyed. Weaving in and out of the models, he aimed his gun, simultaneously firing at them and listening to Switzerland's demands.

"Get out of the line of sight of the Sentry Gun!"  
"Don't bump into anyone! Get in between them!"  
"Jump over the Sentry Gun and take out the Engineer first!"

When all the models were destroyed, Italy returned to Switzerland, panting heavily. Switzerland hit the switch, and another dozen cardboard models appeared, none in exactly the same pose as the ones before.

"Go!" Switzerland shouted.

With increased adeptness, Italy fired at the models. Switzerland kept barking orders at Italy.

"Take out the Demoman BEFORE going near the Stickybombs!"  
"Keep moving! The Sniper can see you!"  
"Circle around the Scout! He is as fast as you are! If you run into him, he has the upper hand!"

Italy returned, having completed the course. Switzerland hit the button again. Another round of figures rose up from the ground. Italy ran around them, shooting each one in the process. Another round of models was activated by Switzerland.  
And another.  
And another.  
And another.

Finally, the last bunch of models was activated. Italy finished firing, leaving Switzerland reasonably satisfied. The exhausted Italy slumped down onto the floor, scattergun gripped half-heartedly. Switzerland took out two more items from his backpack. First, a grey pistol and a few magazines. Second, a bat, roughly the same colour weighing about a kilogram. The blond man dropped those onto the ground beside Italy, saying, "These- these are for…emergencies. You won't be making much use of them. Still, better safe than sorry, eh?" A faint grin formed onto Switzerland's face, for perhaps the first time since the beginning of Italy's training. Then, slinging his backpack over, he walked towards the entrance, opened the door and exited, leaving the resting figure of Italy to his own business.

* * *

The faint aroma of pastries wafted through the Zwinglis' dining room, floating in the air, reaching out to Liechtenstein's nose, luring the little girl into a trance of sorts. Eyes widened, squealing in delight, she bounced up and down on her chair as Switzerland lay a white plate in front of her. He deftly took a fork, placing it on the side, and returned to the kitchen. Coming out with a steaming tray of bread, he waved it teasingly. Liechtenstein's little hands shot out, barely missing the brown, succulent loaf that lay inches away from her fingertips. Switzerland set the tray down, took out a knife, cut a slice of bread and placed it on Liechtenstein's plate, doing the best impression of France that he could.

"I can cut my own bread, Nii-san!" the girl said indignantly.  
"No, Lili. I don't want you slicing off a finger, do I?" Switzerland replied nonchalantly.  
"Hmph!"  
"Fine." Switzerland gave the knife to her. Making a clean incision through the spongy loaf Switzerland prepared, Liechtenstein pulled the two slices apart, leaving a perfectly-cut bit on her plate.

"Well done." Switzerland said.  
"Thank you, Nii-san!" Liechtenstein replied, giving her older brother a hug. She cut off a slice and put it into her mouth. "By the way, who was that lady you were talking to yesterday? And why were you out of the house for so long?"

Switzerland patted the young girls head a few times. "That's…personal. Okay? Just grown-up things."  
"But I'm a grown-up too!"  
"Yes, I'm sure you are." Switzerland said, his sarcasm by no means meant to discourage Liechtenstein. "Listen, you want some apple juice now?"  
"Sure! Apples are my favourites!" the girl squealed.  
"Okay." Switzerland said, rubbing Liechtenstein's messy yellow hair. Then, humming casually to himself, he turned around and went back into the kitchen.


	3. Rockets and their Uses

**Chapter 2's up! I can't tell you how many times I've procrastinated, postponed, and just plain put writing this off to go get lost in the faceless, swirling void known as the Internet. Anyway, enjoy, read, review, and fav if you like it.**

* * *

Switzerland half-heartedly stepped over to the hangar's main entrance, placing an ID card to it. A red light atop a metallic grey box turned green and a beeping noise came from somewhere inside the thing. The box opened, revealing a keypad with the numbers zero to nine on it, not unlike a telephone's.

"One…one…one…one." Switzerland said as he tapped the code in.

"Access permitted." came a synthesized female voice.

The solid steel gate of the hangar let out a low rumble. A few seconds later, it opened, drawing upwards from the ground. Switzerland stepped in. As the gate closed behind him, his eyes were met by three figures.

One. A woman, her back stiff, clad in an olive-green military uniform and hat, an intimidating frying pan slung across her back, reflecting the light streaming in from the windows directly into Switzerland's eyes. Both her hands were grasping the necks of one man each, seemingly undisturbed by their desperate efforts to escape. He brought his hand up to shield himself from the gleam of the pan, then observed the second figure.

Two. A squirming adolescent with steely grey hair, his fiery red eyes writhing around in frenzied desperation. A perky yellow sparrow hovered about six inches in front of his face, oblivious to the horror and pain he was in.

Three. The limp body of a thin, fair-skinned man with glasses, his face red and covered in sweat. His normally handsome purple garb and polished black shoes were now creased and drenched. A cloth hanging from the inside of his shirt hung at an awkward angle, ready to fall out at any second. His eyes were closed. Seeing him, the woman rolled her eyes, gave him a powerful slap on the chest, jolting the man awake. His eyes opened, and his glasses fell off. He picked them up, cleaned them, and placed them back on his face. The woman dropped him, and he sank to the floor, taking long, drawn-out breaths.

Switzerland sighed.

"I thought I only asked for you, Hungary?" he said to the girl, mildly confused.  
"Sir, yes sir! However! I have found prospective mercenaries that we can use. Sir!" Hungary replied.  
"That's fine, just call me Switzerland."  
"Yes, sir!"  
"I said call me Switzerland. Please."  
"Yes si—I mean, General Switzerland!" Hungary shouted, kicking both her prisoners up and forcing them to salute.  
"Ughh…"

Switzerland placed his backpack down, and ordered the two men up. They obliged. Speaking in an assertive manner, he addressed Hungary.

"You are here to act as a Soldier. Do you know what this entails?"  
"Sir, yes sir! The Soldier must attack! It must move forward, bravely defending its comrades and raining hell down onto any pitiful little opponents they encounter!"  
"Very good, Hungary. Now, as for your…friends. Why did you bring them along?"  
"Sir! I believe that this one will make a fine addition to our team!" Hungary shouted, pointing to the man with glasses.  
"Ahh. You. Austria. And what about Prussia there?" Switzerland said, pointing at the other man who was gasping for air.  
"He can come with us so that he can die as soon as possible." Hungary said. Prussia shivered and slinked slowly backwards. Pretending to ignore this response, Switzerland told them, "Wait here."

He came out of the armory in the back room of the hangar, a diverse assortment of weapons slung over his back. A rocket launcher, its barrel twice the size of his fist, a packet of rockets on his waist. From his back hung a shotgun and a rifle with a corroded green scope as a sight, the glass mirror unusually clean. From his back hung a large tank with a crudely-painted blue cross, attached to something like a large siphon tube. At its end lay a black object with a curious-looking barrel, a trigger not unlike a firearm's at its butt. Swinging ever so lightly on Switzerland's belt holster were a saw, its serrated edge in unremarkable condition, a strange sort of automatic pistol with a large barrel boasting countless blue syringes as ammunition, a large butcher's knife, its edge rusted but by no means blunt, and a sub-machine gun, a few metal cartridges nestled within the clasped hands of Switzerland. Stepping towards Hungary, he unstrapped the rocket launcher from its place on his back, seemingly unbothered by the sheer weight of the beast. He then took off the shotgun and tossed it half-heartedly at her.

"Oh my." Austria said, a refined air still pervading his voice.  
"That's big." Prussia remarked.

Hungary, unfazed, placed the shotgun in a belt holster and balanced the rocket launcher on her back.

"Seriously?! You wimps can't balance a rocket launcher on your backs?! It's only a few dozen kilograms, goddammit!" Hungary shouted, flecks of spit spattering on their faces. Calmly taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his face.

"_Meine liebe_…" Austria started, but was silenced by Switzerland, who tossed the rifle at his legs. His face twitched, obviously pained by the weight of the gun. The sub-machine gun landed by his side, accompanied by the large machete. Instinctively, he crawled back, his eyes fixed to its blade, curved and covered with dark red rust.

"W-When do I get my stuff?!" shouted Prussia indignantly.  
"Shut up." Switzerland retorted, deftly drawing a pistol from his belt. "Later." Prussia was silenced.

"Stand up." Switzerland said, tapping Austria on his chin with the gun. Austria stood up, laboriously carrying the rifle in his hand. Hungary looked at him and sighed.

"Austria, love, please try not to be completely useless at this." she said, sighing.  
"_Meine liebe… _it's heavy…" Austria said, awkwardly holding the rifle's butt, unable to stabilize its elongated barrel. After reluctantly assisting the European gentleman, Hungary loaded her weapon with four rockets, each one longer than her hand. Holding the rocket launcher over her shoulder, albeit by no means effortlessly, Hungary moved her left leg behind her, pointing the rocket launcher directly ahead.

"Very good." Switzerland said, obviously pleased despite his distinctive lack of a smile. Turning towards the two men behind her, he commanded, "This is a role model for the both of you to look at! Look at the way she stands. This thing is almost two dozen kilograms, and yet she can hold it in a satisfactory manner. I want you to be able to do the same. Even you, Austria. That rifle's only about five kilograms."

Austria nodded. Hungary eventually stabilized the barrel of her weapon, then turned to Switzerland.

"Very well done. Now, I want you to fire it." Switzerland ordered. Hungary nodded, her eyes narrowed and her legs slightly bent. Her index finger, protected by a soiled, black glove, curled around the trigger of her launcher. She gulped, and fired, doubling over from the recoil.

An incandescent streak of orange shot out of the barrel. Recklessly and swiftly travelling, seemingly immune to the effect of gravity, its pointed tip seemingly slicing through the air like a knife through flesh, the rocket impacted on its target, an unremarkable wooden crate atop a piece of metallic scaffolding, sending a myriad pieces of shrapnel and wood flying through the air, burying themselves in the reinforced concrete walls and rough stone floor below.

Back on the ground, Hungary panted, the barrel of the rocket launcher coughing out smoke. Dropping the rifle, Austria sharply turned towards Hungary, strenuously rolling the large weapon off of her chest. Prussia smiled to himself.

"Some role model, eh Switzerland?" Prussia jeered. Austria kicked him with the heel of his polished shoes.  
"Maybe you would care to try again, my little edelweiss?" the young gentleman said, gently clasping her hand with his. Hungary stood up, and reloaded the rocket, pointing it at another spot on the ground.

"Absorb the impact. Don't try to resist. Flow with it. Feel the weapon." Switzerland coached, as a few beads of sweat ran down the side of Hungary's face.  
"Mr. Tai Chi Switzerland right there." Prussia smirked.  
"Fire!" Switzerland commanded.

Streaking forward, the stream of sparks and flames seeming like a comet's tail to everyone in the room, the rocket charged, a raging bull, at a spot on the ground. Hungary took a step back, obviously struggling to restrain the force of the recoil, regaining her balance with dubious ease. The rocket exploded, leaving a considerable smear of black on the drab grey floor, but otherwise did no harm to it.

"Better." Switzerland remarked.  
"Once more, Sir?!" Hungary said, readying herself.  
"Fine. Fire!"

The barrel of the launcher shot upwards, forcing Hungary to bend her back at an awkward angle to prevent it from falling. The sound of the rocket exploding came a few seconds later. Gripping the handle of the launcher and planting her feet firmly into the ground, Hungary managed to stand herself up. In one swift move, she brought her hand to her head in a salute.

"That'll do."


	4. Austrian Rules

Hungary flicked the safety switch on her rocket launcher, dropping it. Rolling a small distance before finally coming to rest at a post, the rocket launcher let out a last small breath of smoke before subsiding, a whiff of powder and soot in the air.

"Now you two." Switzerland said, pointing to Austria and Prussia. "Pick up your weapons."

With some difficulty, Austria lined his eyes up with the scope on the rifle, aiming it at a crate in the distance. Prussia followed the aristocratic pianist up to the barrier, then realized he had no weapons to use.

"Hey, what's the big idea, Switzerland?! Am I supposed to be the target for this pompous little weakling who can't even hold a rifle?" Prussia exclaimed.  
"Say anything else about Austria and the bird goes too!" Hungary snapped, delivering a hearty smack upside his head with her frying pan.  
"Not the bird! NOT THE BIRD!" Prussia shouted, desperately trying to wave his absent-minded Gilbird away from Hungary's wrath.  
"Oh, so maybe my first experience with this unwieldy stick should be ridding the world of your infernal little pet?" Austria said, grinning slightly.  
"NOT THE BIRD!"  
"Aim…steady…" Austria said, trying to line up his shot.  
"NOT THE BIRD!"  
"Do it, Austria! Then kill Prussia afterwards!"  
"Oh, I promise I will, my dear."  
"SWITZERLAND!"

Switzerland delivered a swift slap to the barrel of Austria's rifle. Discharging his shot a split second too late, Austria fell back painfully onto his head, the recoil obviously too much for him to handle. The bullet pierced Prussia's black pirate hat, eventually lodging itself firmly into a box above. Prussia gave a yelp, eventually letting Gilbird land on him, relieved that the bird was still very much alive. Hungary sighed in disappointment.

"You should've pushed the gun a bit lower." she said, quite angry.  
"Then that would've led to Prussia requiring quite a bit of brain surgery at the least." Switzerland tersely replied.  
"Exactly!"  
"Then where would we find another Medic?" Switzerland said, tossing the peculiar syringe gun to Prussia.  
"M-Medic?" Prussia said, catching the pistol in one hand.  
"Yes. Specializing in moving the wounded out of danger, and healing your fellow team-mates in battle."  
"B-But that's not as exciting as killing something! I want—"  
"You want to do exactly as I say and not deviate from my carefully organized battle plan. Am I clear?"  
"But—"  
"No buts." Switzerland said, his voice quiet and dangerous.

Returning to Austria, Switzerland brought the Sniper's arms up, giving him a few tips on how to adjust the scope and whatnot. Peering into the gentle, slightly-concave sight of the gun, Austria fired, falling onto his behind, the force from the weapon too much for him. Switzerland shook his head.

"Maybe you ought to crouch. You, as a Sniper, must be able to hold this gun and fire at a moment's notice. Therefore, you should practice crouching when firing. It'd be more comfortable for you." Switzerland instructed.

Obliging, Austria got down, his right knee on the floor, his left supporting his hand as he held the weapon still. Concentrating, letting his hands relax, eventually shutting off his mind to the myriad noises around him, Austria fired. A small, piercing ping was heard as his long, piercing bullet collided with some metallic object in the distance. Taking out a small pair of binoculars, Switzerland peered through the polished glass. A crate, filled with ammunition of some sort, the lock obviously damaged and hanging. Switzerland turned to face Austria.

"Impressive." Switzerland said.  
"Yeah, cool, good, nice. And now I'm left without anything to do." came a voice carrying a not-so-subtle hint of agitation.  
"Ah, you, Prussia. Here." Switzerland removed a bulky box from his back, a blue cross rudimentarily painted on it. The tube that sprawled out of its bottom was attached to a curious metallic device not unlike a leaf blower at its tip. Upon closer inspection, Prussia noticed two distinct features. One, a little piece of metal joined to the main body. Switzerland quickly pulled it back, then let it spring back into position. Two, a little switch down the side with a yellow warning sign that clashed with the rest of the gun. Switzerland handed it to him.

"Oh, so I get the Vacuum Cleaner of Doom. Very nice, _Schweiz_."  
"I will ignore your unbecoming sardonic remarks for now. Prussia, meet the Medigun."  
"The Medigun?"  
"Yes. The Medigun. A finely-crafted piece that emits something- _some_thing- with amazing biological properties. It enhances the rate of cell growth, disinfects wounds, blocks blood leaks—"  
"Yeah, yeah. Now what?"  
"Now, I will teach you how to operate one. Hungary. Come here."  
"Sir, yes sir!"  
"Pick up your rocket launcher."  
"Sir!"

Purposefully sauntering over to her pile of weapons, the militaristic young woman swept the launcher up in one swift move, balancing it on her shoulder with relative ease.

"No, Hungary. I want you to aim it _downwards_." Switzerland said, silencing what was about to be a protest from Austria with a wave of his hand.  
"D-Downwards?! But sir! The blast radius! It-it could kill me!"  
"Trust me on this, Hungary. Aim downwards."

The barrel of Hungary's rocket launcher fell. Clearly unnerved, the woman gulped and planted her finger on the trigger, loading a rocket in.

"Now fire." Switzerland said, his wry tone making even Prussia's eyes dart about with blatant apprehension.  
"No! Switzerland, you idiot! T-The rocket will kill her!" Austria exclaimed, rushing towards Hungary in an attempt to stop her.  
"Do I look like I care?" Switzerland replied, his face twisted into a grimace that dared the two men to so much as lift a finger to resist.  
"What the hell do you mean by that?!" Austria protested, very much flustered.  
"Look, I know she's a total ass to deal with sometimes, but this is too much!" Prussia said, advancing towards him.  
"Shut up. You will follow orders." Switzerland said, pointing a Heckler & Koch P8 at the both of them. "You disobedient, nervy, insubordinate fools will falter and collapse within five seconds on the battlefield if you continue to disobey your commander." Switzerland sharply added.

Hungary raised her hand, signaling for Austria to stop. Nervously wiping his glasses, Austria gripped the butt of his rifle tightly, his sweat flowing onto its metal trigger, falling onto the concrete below.

"Hungary…" Austria pleaded. His former wife ignored him, shutting her eyes.  
"Prussia, turn on your Medigun." Switzerland ordered. Prussia complied. A tremendous whirring noise shot out like a bolt from the backpack that Prussia wore, followed by a stream of brilliant blue sparks. Shivering feverishly, the entire device raged like a rabid bull as Prussia desperately fought tooth and nail to control it. A rancid smell emanated from the barrel. Prussia held it to his face, trying with all his might to calm the object, a raging, gyrating snake that swooped, slid and swirled around, trying to escape Prussia's mad grip. Then all of a sudden, the fury of the Medigun was quelled, and the horrible smell abruptly metamorphosed into a pale blue smoke and a peculiar scent, not unlike gasoline. Prussia fell, a trance-like expression on his face, his pupils extremely dilated.

"I see that our dear Medic here has intoxicated himself with his… ammunition." Switzerland said, rolling his eyes. Austria strode over to the pitiable slumped-over figure of Prussia, pulled his head back, slapping his face.

Sharply regaining consciousness, the Germanic man sat bolt upright, brandishing the Medigun. Satisfied, Switzerland placed Prussia's hand on the butt of the gun, showing him how to grip it properly. Returning to his post, the blond instructor gave a nod towards Hungary.

"Fire!" Switzerland barked. 


	5. Die Übermensch

"Hungary, no!"  
"…And she's gone." Prussia said, admiring the magnificent fire-red streak that spread itself up in front of him, its grey neck extending rapidly every second he stared.  
"Hungary! Do you hear me?!" Austria called, eyes fixed on the limp figure of Hungary as she soared through the air. "Get help! Get help, now!"  
"That won't be necessary, Austria. Look."

Austria looked up once again, and placed his hand to his mouth. Hungary was perfectly fine, her usual vigor obvious as the laughing female waved down to the both of them below.

"Hey! You should try this! It feels awesome!"  
"I'll pass, thank you very much." Austria replied, abated but nervously glancing around the hangar.  
"It appears our Soldier has mastered the Rocket Jump." Switzerland observed, flicking the safety switch on his gun.  
"I believe I can fly, I believe I can touch the—AH!" Hungary cried as the painful sound of her body smashing onto the floor reverberated through the hangar.  
"H-Hungary…?! Switzerland, what have you done?!" Austria screamed, throttling Switzerland's neck with his thin, lean hands.  
"You've done it now, Switzerland. You idiot." Prussia said, staring at the bleeding figure of the girl, not exactly inclined to help.  
"I swear, I'm going to kill you!" Austria said, delivering a flurry of punches to Switzerland's face. Turning away, quite distressed but not grimacing in pain, Switzerland gestured to Prussia to come.

"Prussia—please- use the Medigun—quickly—" Switzerland called, trying to swat away Austria's blows in vain.  
"But—"  
"Now!"

A snaking streak of blue appeared, eventually clinging onto the body of Switzerland.

"Gaah!" he grunted. "Not on me, on Hungary, you idiot!"  
"Jawohl!"  
Rushing towards the writhing figure of Hungary, Prussia pointed the gun at her body, and fired the beam of smoke, using every fibre of his muscles to control the movement of the gun as it breathed out its brilliant blue substance at her. Hungary's screams of pain gradually grew fainter, and her pained movements subsided as her gaping wounds gradually closed, the river of blood flowing from her beaten body slowing, then eventually stopping. Her eyes, writhing in pain, grew ever more peaceful, eventually closing. Hungary placed her palms on the floor, panting heavily.

"W-What was that?" she asked, overwhelmed by the effects of the Medigun.  
"Hungary? Hungary, you're alive…! Hungary!" Austria gasped, exhaling a long sigh of relief, squeezing the uniform-clad Soldier.  
"Austria, Austria, please calm down. At least I'm alive… What the hell was that?"  
"The Medigun." Switzerland replied. "A most unusual weapon (if you can call it that) that, instead of draining the lifeblood of its target, restores it, saving him, or her, from certain death. Of course, once the thread of life has been cut…" Switzerland said, the last sentence accompanied with a small laugh.  
"So the reason Austria has not blown your brains out yet is because of…this?" Prussia said, holding the piece of steel to his face.  
"Yes. You're the only mercenary who gets one. So I advise you to use it wisely."  
"Wait, so, I'm gonna have to rely on HIM to save our butts on the battlefield?!" Hungary exclaimed, pointing at Prussia.  
"Hey, you jumpy little gold digger, I did it once already!" Prussia retorted.  
"What did you just call her?!"  
"Yes, without any hazards, any enemy fire, any obstacles of any sort and you still were more than fifteen seconds late!"  
"Better late than never!"  
"Yes, it's better to be late and for me to be dead than never! Isn't it, Prussia?!"  
"Silence!" Switzerland ordered. "There's one last thing I want to show you." Prussia.  
"Jawohl?"  
"Please continue using the Medigun on Hungary."  
"But she's perfectly healed by now!"  
"Am I your superior, or am I not, Prussia?"

Reluctantly, Prussia pointed the gun at Hungary, letting out a stream of Medigun ammunition. Hungary's body convulsed. Panting wildly, her legs shaking, Hungary let out a pained cry.

"Hungary? Hungary? What's happening to you?!" Austria shouted.  
"It's…I'm… My God, what's happening?! I feel…I feel energized…I'm invincible…superhuman…! Austria…Switzerland…everything's slowing down!"  
"Ha. This is what's known as the Overheal. A brief, momentary spike in the vital life processes of a human due to an excess of this…substance." Switzerland explained.  
"It's stopped…"  
"What's stopped?" Prussia asked  
"I'm not growing any stronger, Prussia. More!"  
"Hungary, you're scaring me now. What's happening?" Austria remarked.  
"Austria, you don't know how this feels! It's amazing! Give me more! More Medigun!"  
"Of course there's a limit." Switzerland said. "What'd you expect, immortality?"  
Austria, mildly curious, stepped up in front of Prussia.  
"I don't suppose you'd try overhealing me?" Austria asked.  
"This wimp? What good can it do?"  
"It doesn't hurt to try." Switzerland replied. Half-heartedly, Prussia fired the Medigun, pointing it directly at Austria. The normally-reserved gentleman's body tensed up, his muscles contracting and heartbeat quickening.  
"This…! This is amazing! The power…it's boundless!"

A burst of sparks from the Medigun flew upwards, stinging Prussia with a sharp, electric sensation. He quickly turned.

"Ah, so it's charged." Switzerland observed calmly.  
"What?" Prussia asked, fighting off the blue bursts of energy that traveled up his body.

Switzerland gave a peculiar laugh.

"The Ubercharge."  
"The Ubercharge?" the three of them chorused.  
"Yes… A state in which the recipient of the Ubercharge's body undergoes dramatic transformations. To be more specific…" Switzerland's voice trailed off.  
"To be more specific, what? He turns into a potato or something?" Prussia asked, struggling to contain the energy radiating from the metal object in his hands.  
"No, I assure you, nothing of the sort. What happens is truly…extraordinary."  
"Extraordinary?"  
"Yes, yes." Switzerland smiled. "Extraordinary in the fact that the subject of the Ubercharge begins to feel a dramatic burst of energy. Then, a brilliant, pulsating glow emanates from the body. Soon, the person shines and glows, feeling an immense power from inside of them course through their veins. So intense, in fact, that one may be forgiven from thinking that it is not of this world. Eventually…"

Switzerland furtively eyed the smoking mouth of the Medigun.

"Eventually, they feel invincible. They _are_ invincible."  
"Holy…" Prussia began, looking into the seemingly bottomless barrel of the Medigun, awestruck by its almost-limitless power.  
"So I… will be indestructible?" Hungary asked, a hint of a smile manifesting itself on her face.  
"For a time, yes."  
"We charge in…attack…unafraid, uncaring…"  
"There are, of course, limitations to this power."

Switzerland broke another chunk of Toblerone off, shoving it into his mouth.

"Firstly," he began, "this technology is also available to the enemy. They, after all, also work for Mann. Co."  
"Right," the three of them answered.  
"Secondly, only the Medic—Prussia—and his heal target will be rendered invincible for this period of time."

Switzerland gravely looked at Prussia.

"And lastly…" Switzerland began, awkwardly pausing mid-sentence. His eyes seemed to lose their normal focus. Lifting his head, he seemed to concentrate on some point on the dull, concrete walls.  
"Is there anything wrong, Switzerland?" Hungary asked, trying, but failing, to ignore the incessant growling of the Medigun.  
"Oh, nothing. It's just that I'm out of Toblerone."

Switzerland fished out another bar of the sweet, sticky substance and took a large bite out of it.

"Lastly, the Ubercharge only renders you _indestructible._ You will not be _invincible_, nor will you gain access to _limitless power_."

Switzerland took a small pause to allow his words to sink in.

"In other words, if you were Ubercharged, I could fire Hungary's rocket launcher on you and it'd do as much damage as if I slapped your stomachs."  
"So…?" the three of them asked.  
"But the _force_ does not disappear. Both Medic and his heal target will be knocked back, just as much as if the Ubercharge was not activated. Therefore, we have a double-edged sword; an Ubercharge which took minutes to prepare can be rendered ineffective in a matter of seconds by one simple rocket."  
"So the Ubercharge isn't as useful as we thought it would be." Prussia snapped, now looking at his Medigun with a hint of contempt.  
"Well, nothing is perfect. At least these drawbacks also apply to the enemy."

Switzerland took a step towards Prussia and tapped the barrel of the gun with his finger.

"Ready to try one?" Switzerland asked, standing back.  
"Jawohl!"

Prussia flicked the button on, and reeled backwards from the sheer force of the gun. Roaring and screeching, the Medigun convulsed, its cries growing ever louder and angrier. Struggling to contain the machine's fury, Prussia aimed the barrel at Hungary, then fired, a blinding blue stream of light throwing itself outwards, spiraling around the girl's body. It shot upwards, trapping the Soldier within its grasp. Then, it sank its transparent body into Hungary's, injecting a terrible aura into her.

"What…what is this?!" Hungary screamed as her body grew brighter and brighter.  
"Hungary, are you alright?! Hungary!" Austria commanded, gazing fearfully at the Medigun.  
"Austria… Austria! This is… I'm invincible!"

Hungary's terrified expression soon shifted into one of ecstasy. Laughing like a child, she fired a string of shots into the air with her shotgun.

"Austria! Austria, I'm invincible!" Hungary squealed.

Switzerland drew his pistol and removed the safety in one swift move. Then, extending his arm like a skilled fencer, he fired a series of shots into Hungary's body. The bullets bounced off harmlessly, landing with a small 'ping' on the ground. Standing perfectly still, Hungary laughed as Switzerland emptied his cartridge into her.

"I see. Ready to try something more…powerful?"  
"Bring it on!"

Grabbing the rocket launcher lying on the ground, Switzerland crammed a round into it, balanced the massive weapon on his shoulder, and aimed it.

"Switzerland?! She-she will never survive this!" Austria shouted, alarmed.  
"Oh?" Switzerland asked. He fired the rocket, an unnerving lack of concern on his face.

Both Prussia and Hungary were blown back, forced against the wall by the sheer force of the explosion.

"What…Switzerland, are you—?!"  
"Insane?!" Hungary replied. "No! This is…!"  
"I'm alive…I'm alive, I'm alive!" Prussia screamed, laughing maniacally.

Then the brilliant glow of the two mercenaries dissipated, dissolving into the heavy air.

"That will be all." Switzerland said. Chewing on another piece of chocolate, he tossed Austria a key.

"That's for the storage room. I want it back." Switzerland ordered.

Nodding in agreement, Austria motioned for the other two to follow him. Straightening his beret, Switzerland made his way towards the reinforced steel door, opened it, and left.


	6. Hide and Seek

The Administrator, ever present at her watch over the training grounds of the future BLU team, slid her elongated, wooden pipe from between her puckered lips. Blowing some smoke, she turned on a fan, if only to help the acrid smoke dissipate into the colourless air. Her eyes were drawn to one screen in particular. Three figures stood on a concrete floor.

The erect, motionless figure of Switzerland, his usual emotionless countenance and dry gaze coming as no surprise to the Administrator.

A girl, her petticoat's hem trimmed with little white frills. The Administrator's eyes were drawn to her, unable to determine why exactly she was inside a maximum-security Mann Co. complex. _She was too innocent, too naïve_, the Administrator thought.

Then the girl pulled out an impressive butcher's knife from a plain white, knee-length sock, brandishing it in front of Switzerland. Mildly startled, the Administrator quickly took her eyes off her, instinctively glancing at another security screen at the opposite end of the chamber.

Relaxing her body and slouching onto her office chair, she inspected the last of the figures. She leaned forward, zooming in the camera to focus on him. Sporting an array of winter clothes, his pale, faintly grey hair as matted as Switzerland's, the recruit said something, laughing heartily as he did so. He sported a fearsome machine with four long chambers heat-sealed together and an impressive string of cartridges about as long as her middle finger and as thick as her thumb snaking around his body. Then he stopped laughing, and faced Switzerland, and seemed to mutter something to him. _Whatever he said_, thought the Administrator, _must have been absolutely deplorable. _Indeed, as soon as the last word left his lips, she seemed to notice, Switzerland actually stepped backwards, swallowing deeply.

Sourly inserting the pipe into her withered, puckered lips, the Administrator picked up a little device, turning it on, then watched. From the solitude and quiet of her room, the Administrator observed as Switzerland rummaged for his mobile phone, eventually pulling it out of a slightly frayed back pocket.

"Hello?" Switzerland calmly asked.  
"Can you please explain what those two are doing in the hangar?" The Administrator drawled, lowering the temperature of the room.  
"Administrator…meet the Spy and the Heavy."

The Administrator sized the two up and took a long puff of her cigar.

"Spy? Heavy?"  
"Yes. Ms. Natalia Arlovskaya and Mr. Ivan Braginsky. They go by the nicknames Russia and Belarus."  
"I see," the Administrator answered, slowly reclining.

Switzerland grabbed Belarus' wrist, holding it about five inches away from her face. His gloved fingers wrapped around the clean metallic strap. Then, pointing at a button that barely jutted out of the watch's glass frame, Switzerland motioned for her to press it.

"This button will render you invisible for a short period of time. Very useful for getting out of a tight spot, or for silently searching for your next target." Switzerland instructed.  
"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Belarus groaned.  
"Push it."

With some reluctance, Belarus jabbed the button.

The frills of her dress were the first to go, seemingly dissolving into the thick, dry air of the hangar. Then her black stockings and shoes went, becoming more and more transparent and eventually fading into oblivious. Then her arms. Finally, her obviously disturbed face and flowing blonde hair were gone- evaporated into nothingness.

"Switzerland! _Spasibo_! You finally made her disappear…All my life, I tried to get this creepy sister of mine out of my sight, but you have done it… Thank you! I do anything for you, anything, da? I—"  
"Be quiet! She didn't disappear, you fool."  
"T-Then where is she…?" Russia asked, furtively glancing around the monochrome complex.

An unseen force gripped Russia's arm, followed by an invisible weight on his back. He yelled in horror as he felt the invisible fingernails of Belarus digging into his shirt. Her hand slipped around his neck as he swore he felt her cold, forceful fingers pinching his cheek. Flailing one arm around wildly, Russia gripped the trigger of the Minigun with the other. The fearsome weapon slowly turned, eventually spinning at such speed that the screeching sound of its metal frame angered Switzerland.

"Switzerland! Help me, comrade!" Russia exclaimed, screaming as he mindlessly let a stream of bullets fill the air. Instinctively ducking behind the barrier for cover, Switzerland took out a pistol and fired, the shot whizzing past Russia's ear,. Russia stopped writhing, the figure of Belarus metamorphosing on his back, her arms flung around his neck. Irritated, Switzerland drew his pistol and fired once more.

"You immature, incompetent fools simply cannot behave like this in the line of duty! Belarus! Get off Russia!"  
"Fine!" Belarus said, releasing her death grip on Russia's back. She stood up, grasped Russia's hand with enough strength to make even Switzerland cringe, then leaned uncomfortably close to him.

"Nii-san, won't you tell this boring old fart to piss off so that you and I can have some privacy?!" Belarus snapped, hugging her brother's arm. Russia screamed and pulled his arm back, restraining his determined sister with the full force of his arms.

"Switzerland… help me, please… please take away this demented sister of mine…" Russia pleaded. Switzerland thought he saw a tear fall out of his eye, and gulped. It was uncommon to see Russia—cold-hearted, sadistic, formidable Russia—cry in a manner uncomfortably similar to Italy.

"Russia, you and your sister can have a very, _very_ long talk about your family issues once this is over. Right now, I need you to concentrate!" Switzerland shouted. With some reluctance, she slid off Russia's back.

"Now, we are going to play a game of sorts." Switzerland said, carefully watching every movement the two made.  
"Game?! Nii-san and I will be on the same team. We will beat you at the game first, and once you lose, Russia will see that I will be the best wife in the world for him!" Belarus squealed. Russia nervously took a step back, a pitiful whimper escaping from his lips.  
"No, no. You and your brother will play this game. I will remain silent throughout, only serving to ensure that each of you play by the rules at all times."  
"But Russia and I have to practice working together so that we can prepare to live as husband and wife!"  
"Help me, Switzerland…" Russia moaned.  
"That is not of my concern. Russia, I suggest you file a restraining order after all this is done. In the meantime, Belarus, think of this as a relationship-building exercise."  
"Relationship…building?"  
"Yes, Belarus."

With that, Belarus was calmed. Switzerland picked up their weapons, laying them to one side.

"This is a simple game of hide-and-seek." Switzerland explained.  
"Hide and seek? But if I hide, I will not be able to see Russia's amazingly sexy face!" Belarus protested.  
"On the contrary, Belarus. You, of all people, should be able to see Russia all the time."  
"Huh?"  
"You, acting as a Spy, will be invisible. Silent. But ever-present, waiting for your turn to strike. And when you catch your prey—Russia—in one fateful moment of weakness, one single moment of distraction…you strike. One shot. To the back."  
"Comrade Switzerland, this is too much! Imagine, please imagine this! Stuck in a dirty old building, trembling in fear with nothing to defend yourself from this crazy, psychotic sister of mine!"  
"Wrong again, Russia. You will have your Minigun to defend yourself. With dummy bullets, of course."  
"What do you mean, _dummy_ bullets, Comrade Switzerland?! You know full well that Belarus needs _real_ bullets to keep her in check!"  
"Oh, if she gets out of hand, I have no shortage of bullets here." Switzerland assured Russia. He twirled his gun, then pointed towards the storage room at the back.

"You'll find dummy bullets and the guns there. Belarus, your revolver needs fake bullets as well. Your knife won't be necessary- if you touch Russia's back, then you've won. Got that?" Switzerland explained.  
"Yes, Switzerland."  
"Good. I expect you to be back in ten minutes."

Then Switzerland turned away. Climbing a large piece of scaffolding from which he could see the area, Switzerland took out a Toblerone chunk and allowied himself the pleasure of a small nibble, allowing the sweet, milky flavour to swirl around the insides of his mouth.

* * *

_Spasibo_: (Russian, interjection) Thank you


	7. Hidden and Unafraid

**So, after a VERY long hiatus, the next chapter is FINALLY up! I didn't have much time for the last weeks to write, not least because of my addiction to TF2 so I'm sorry if anyone got annoyed waiting... But anyway, the chapter's up and that's what matters. Read, review and fav!**

* * *

"Three...two…one. Begin."

The last word had barely left Switzerland's lips when he fired his pistol into the air. Scanning the area from atop his rusting, metal pedestal, Switzerland leaned slightly on the backrest of his chair, nonchalantly fiddling with his hair. His attention turned towards the figure of Russia, his Minigun already spinning.

Smiling thinly as his cloudy, lavender eyes examined the surroundings, Russia aimed at a spot shielded by a stack of withering crates, then fired.

"Belarus! You are dead now, da?" Russia taunted as a string of styrofoam bullets collided with the flimsy barrier a few hundred metres away from him. Sighing, Switzerland took out a pair of binoculars and peered at the spot behind the stack.

"No, Russia, Belarus is still very much alive," Switzerland patiently observed, looking at the pile of dummy bullets lying on the ground.  
"_Chyort_!" Russia cursed, swinging around sharply.

Another round of bullets; another spray of splinters. The Minigun's next victim was a pile of wood hanging at the other end of the hangar. Perhaps, he thought, it had been used years ago for target practice. Now it was rotting, unevenly-shaped bits precariously hanging off the ends.

"Miss." Switzerland snapped. "Next time, please take the effort to check whether your adversary is actually _near_ your firing line. Your ammunition is limited."  
"Da." Russia replied, gritting his teeth and scanning the surroundings.

Squinting, Russia's focus shifted abruptly from one piece of cover to another. A split second meant the difference between victory and defeat in this game. He couldn't afford any hesitation, if only for a split second. Of course he couldn't; Belarus was too quick and too opportunistic. As Russia had learnt the hard way countless times before, turning one's back on Belarus was never a wise move. Turn, then fire—anything to prove that he himself was still aware, alert, ready to unleash a hail of bullets at his sister. Russia let out a short breath. Where was Belarus? If he moved, then she would spring out of the walls, pouncing on him before he had a chance to react. If he stayed, Belarus would have more than enough time to close in on him, to hide in the shadows. The strike would inevitably come- it was just a matter of when. He was an animal, a creature with the strength of a bear. He could rip Belarus apart if given the chance. But Belarus was a skilled hunter, a wolf concealed in the dingy, fading hangar. A hunter hell-bent on capturing her prey.

A sudden, screeching scream rudely interrupted Russia's train of thought. Turning around, he gasped in horror as Belarus charged straight at him, knife drawn and swinging wildly.

"Become one with me, Russia!" Belarus screamed, brandishing her weapon. She was charging straight _at_ him- not _behind_ him like she was supposed to. Gulping, Russia placed one hand on the weighty, metallic handle of the Minigun.

Unthinking, the petrified mercenary gripped the trigger of the gun. The massive iron machine spewed out a string of bullets, each one meeting its mark on the deceptively thin body of Belarus. But this did not deter her- rather, with each impact, the flailing girl's resolve seemed to strengthen. With one last gasp of energy, Belarus leaped six feet forward, tackling Russia and pinning him to the ground by his arms.

"Russia, here I am! Now where was that marriage registration slip?"  
"Belarus, please, go away, da?!" Russia pleaded, wishing that Ukraine was there to restrain the depraved girl on his body.  
"Enough!" Switzerland ordered. With one hand, he dragged Belarus off Russia, delivering a hefty slap to the back of her head.

"You two could possibly be the most idiotic pair I have ever had to work with." Switzerland said, grabbing Russia by the collar.

"Russia! You are a Heavy! Stand firm and strong! She's your _sister_, goddammit!"  
"I'm his _wife,_ Switzerland!" Belarus screamed, grabbing Russia by the waist. Russia whimpered.  
"And you. Belarus." Switzerland snarled, pulling her by her hair. "You are a Spy! You hide in the shadows, calculating your approach, waiting, just waiting for the chance to strike! You don't charge into the fray like a wild dog on steroids!"  
"But Russia just stands still whenever I run to him!"  
"But you aren't training to fight Russia, you hyperactive bonehead!"

Crossing her arms indignantly, Belarus twirled the knife around, catching it with its point aimed directly at Russia. Her older brother breathed heavily as he reloaded a fresh string of bullets into his Minigun._ Typical Belarus_, Russia thought. _An idiot with an incredible affinity for stalking me._

"Now, return to your positions, and _try_ to carry out this exercise without being a pair of incompetent baboons." Switzerland snarled, returning to his post atop the rusting framework.

* * *

The Mingun's four barrels turned rapidly as the machine's screeching noise echoed around the abandoned hangar. Wielding it was Russia, who growled and grimaced as he sprayed bullets all over the opposite end of the grounds. Meticulously observing the two, Switzerland let out a brief sigh as he relaxed a little. Everything was going according to plan. Wiping a few drops of sweat clinging to his forehead, Switzerland narrowed his eyes as he leaned over, his curiosity aroused by the sight of Belarus crouched behind a stack of crates.

Drawing a knife from her stocking, Belarus slotted a bullet into one of the chambers of her revolver with the other hand. She lay down, carefully ensuring that every part of her body was obscured by the grey barrier in front of her. Then, in one swift move, the top of her head became visible, followed by the rest of her body. Extending her arm like a fencer's, Belarus fired at Russia.

The bullet whizzed past him, narrowly missing his billowing scarf. Startled, Russia spun around, pointing the four long barrels of the Minigun at his sister.

"Belarus, you idiot! You have given away your position!" Switzerland shouted angrily.

Ignoring him, Belarus desperately staggered towards a piece of wood about five metres away from her. Managing a smirk, Russia gripped the trigger, unleashing a torrent of fire at her.

The figure of Belarus went limp in mid-air, then fell behind the barricade, her empty revolver the only remnant of her immediately visible to Russia, who stood, back bent, panting heavily.

"Switzerland, I just killed Belarus, da…?" Russia asked, mouth open, a disoriented expression on his face.

Switzerland did not respond. Upon closer inspection, Russia noticed that Switzerland was by no means worried. Was he…smiling?

"Bring her body to me, then," was all Switzerland said. Shifting in his seat, he removed his beret and wiped it, then plopped it back on his head.

Cautiously taking a few steps towards the barrier, Russia breathed nervously as he released his grip on the handle. The drone of the Minigun gradually quietened and faded into the humid summer air inside the hangar. Russia arrived at the barricade, unthinkingly picking up Belarus' revolver. As if afraid that Belarus would somehow return from the dead and attack him, Russia nervously glanced over the barrier. No Belarus.

_Belarus was not there. _

Then it dawned on him. Belarus was not dead. Far from it. She was now the hunter. And that made him the hunted.

Turning around sharply, Russia roared as he let loose another string of bullets, with no intention of finding anything resembling a target. Belarus could be anywhere- what good would firing at any one place do? Turn once more, then fire, then look up, then fire, then return. What was that noise? Turn, then fire. Was that a shadow? Fire again. That crate just now- was that Belarus? Fire again. Nothing moved, and everything moved. Nothing was there, Belarus was there. Belarus was everywhere, and she was nowhere. Russia, Switzerland thought, must've used half of his bullets firing aimlessly at the invisible, lurking Belarus.

"Oh?" Switzerland asked, raising an eyebrow. "So you haven't won, after all?"  
"S-Shut up!" Russia screamed, quickly swinging around. "_Mudak!_"

With that, Switzerland relaxed once more, not fully satisfied but by no means displeased. Russia, meanwhile, had discarded the Minigun in favour of his shotgun, which he held at an emotionless, formless being hovering in front of him. He fired once, but Switzerland noticed a distinct lack of energy in his movements, which now resembled those of a cold-blooded animal trapped in a frigid night. His vitality was gone, now replaced by a discomforting torpor. It was as if, Switzerland mused, as if…as if he had relinquished himself to Belarus. The same Belarus who, only moments earlier, faked her own death. The same Belarus who wished for Russia's blood. The Belarus who now dominated the surroundings, her spirit and body infusing the very air that seemed to be closing in on Russia, swirling and twisting around him, gripping his muscled body and draining the very lifeblood out of him.

"Belarus…" came a hoarse, hollow voice. "Belarus, where are you…?"

A dissonant, synthetic noise followed. As if materializing out of the emptiness that was the hangar, Russia heard a feminine grunt, followed by the faint sound of metal hitting metal.

"Damn it!" Belarus cursed. Russia's head turned sharply upwards. Nothing but stainless steel beams and rusty iron.

Then the falling figure of Belarus' Invis Watch, slowly materializing in front of Russia. He fired his weapon.

"Kolkolkol, Belarus… it appears that I have gotten the better of you, da?" Russia laughed, breathing a sigh of relief as his shot rang out. The watch fell to the ground, its screen cracked, but not shattered, by the dummy bullets forced onto it. Switzerland looked on, a curious look on his face.

"Switzerland…it's over, da? Belarus is defeated, da?" Russia anxiously asked, placing the shotgun back in its holster.  
"The answer to the former is yes, Russia. On the other hand…Turn around." Switzerland replied, a dangerous twinkle in his emerald eyes.  
"What?" Russia asked, not daring to move a muscle.  
"Hello, Russia." Belarus said, bringing her arm around Russia's neck from behind him.

The scream that followed seemed to awaken the lifeless, soulless crates from their slumber with its unearthly tone. Switzerland, unnerved, placed both of his hands on his ears, unable to look at the farcical sight below. Meanwhile, somewhere in a Mann Co. complex, the Administrator put her palm to her face, switched the CCTV off, and took a heavy, intoxicating puff of her pipe.

**Notes:**

_Mudak (noun)_: A Russian insult. Similar to the English "asshole".  
_Chyort! (interjection)_: Hell!/Damn!


	8. High Explosives, High Temperatures

The lone figure in the centre of the room yawned as she turned on the CCTV screens once again. Haphazardly arranging her hair into something looking remotely presentable, she rubbed her eyes and let out a dissatisfied moan as she inserted a fresh round of tobacco into her pipe. Sighing to herself, she dragged herself to the transceiver bolted to her panel, turned it on, and spoke into it. Miles away, in the Mann Co. hangar that was etching itself permanently into Switzerland's mind, the Administrator's new right-hand man answered his phone.

"Hello, madam?" Switzerland said.  
"Mr. Zwingli. I would like to ask you why I do not have a proper team of fully trained, fully equipped mercenaries to use against the REDs." the Administrator asked, her toneless voice making no effort to conceal her displeasure.  
"You've been calling later and later each day. Is something wrong?" Switzerland asked, unfazed.  
"Yes, something is wrong, Mr. Zwingli. Why, may I ask, are you still using the training grounds?"  
"To hold a waltz class," came the terse reply.  
"Zwingli, you will address me with the respect I deserve." the Administrator ordered.  
"And you will allow me the time I need to prepare." Switzerland replied.

A pause followed. Switzerland continued.

"I apologize that I was not able to prepare a squad earlier, and I will compensate if need be. All I need is one day." Switzerland said. With that, the Administrator was placated, and Switzerland once more diverted his attention towards the three men on the training grounds.

"Die, England!" Denmark screamed as a stream of air blasted out of his flamethrower, reflecting England's grenades away. Harmlessly running through the smoke of the blast, Denmark charged towards the blonde man metres away from him. England fired two stickybombs at Denmark, but they missed, bouncing harmlessly off a wall and exploding safely behind Denmark. As the only Nordic in the team pounced on England, he drew his axe, holding it inches away from England's throat. Casually leaning on the side of his Sentry Gun, America twirled his wrench around on his finger and took a hefty bite of his hamburger.

"Stop!" ordered Switzerland.

Denmark clambered off of England, grabbed his arm, and helped him up. Meanwhile, at the other end of the hall, America busied himself with a sizeable glass of Coke.

"That brings us to five kills each. The last kill will be the tiebreaker. The winner will receive an extra serving of food on our first mission. The two losers, get joint latrine duty in addition to their existing responsibilities. Am I clear?"  
"Yes sir!" England and Denmark chorused. America took another huge bite out of his burger.  
"America? Were you even listening?" Switzerland asked.  
"Nom nom nom… Yeah, yeah. I just need to stay by my Sentry Gun and wait, right? Then someone gets shot, and I win."

America finished his soda, and threw the cup aside. Ignoring him, Switzerland motioned for England to come.

"Give me your grenade launcher." Switzerland ordered. England obeyed. Drawing a luminescent blue object from a pocket, Switzerland emptied the dummy grenades, allowing them to fall harmlessly onto the concrete below. Then he slotted the object into one of the weapon's chambers, took aim, and then fired.

A deafening blast rang out, followed by a burning flash and a cloud of smoke. Then the sight of hundreds of pieces of metal flying through the air, their blue shells like a fountain of steel. America stared at the explosion, his mouth gaping open.

"My-my Sentry Gun!" he screamed, listlessly picking up the pieces of the turret. Shaking his head, Switzerland returned the launcher to the wide-eyed England, then retrieved a heavy blue toolbox from a shelf on the side.

"My Sentry! Gone!" America wailed, angrily tossing his burger aside. Sliding the toolbox to America, Switzerland kicked the smaller pieces of the exploded Sentry Gun aside.  
"You had an unfair advantage for every round beforehand. In a real battle, you would have about as much time to build your Sentry Gun from scratch as I need to load a pistol."

America gulped, then took the box, slinking away to his post behind a corroded barrier. Briskly turning, Switzerland began to make his way back to his post, then paused.

"You won't need to worry about that Sentry Gun. I will compensate for the damage that I have caused to it."

Reclining back onto his chair, Switzerland cocked his gun, aimed it up, and then fired.

"Begin!" he yelled.

Ducking behind a barrier for covering, America clicked open the locks of the toolbox. A few beeps came out of the heavy steel, followed by a few monotone buzzes as the Sentry Gun inside folded itself outwards. Laughing to himself, America stroked the curved top of the Sentry. One clumsy step, one moment of weakness, a single shred of exposure and the Sentry would cut the poor mercenary to bits.

Loading six cartridges into his shotgun, America poked his head out of cover, peering at the two other men standing about two dozen metres away from him.

"Die!" Denmark yelled as he drew his shotgun and blindly fired at England. His miss was almost laughable—to Switzerland, the bullets seemed to land closer to America than to England. Laughing at this futile attempt, England lobbed two grenades at the new Pyro.

Reeling in shock, Denmark leaped to another piece of cover merely seconds before the capsules exploded in a blast of metal and chemicals. England raised his right arm in the air, dropped his weapon and called out to Switzerland.

"Switzerland! Kill against Pyro!" he yelled.  
"No!" Switzerland replied. "He's still alive. Resume!"

Frustrated, England jammed four more capsules into the barrel of his Grenade Launcher. America returned to his place behind the cover, opened the toolbox then clicked open a small hatch no bigger than his fist on the side of the Sentry Gun. Emptying whatever metal was left in his supplies into it, he hammered away with his wrench, allowing the machine to assimilate the broken pieces into its steel body.

A cough of steam signalled to America that the gun was finished. But the turrets he needed did not sprout yet as he intended. Cursing loudly, he kicked the Sentry, leading Switzerland to stifle a chuckle.

"Out of metal, America?" he asked.  
"Shut up!" America quipped.

Seeing a small pile of metal some five metres away from where he stood, most likely from the old Sentry Gun. America smiled. Recklessly charging at the pile, he barely scraped an armful of metal before being forced back into his corner by two of England's stickybombs. That was enough, America reasoned. Cramming the metal into the hatch, America desperately smashed the pile with his wrench over and over again. When this was over, the Sentry emitted a low, rumbling. Vibrating wildly, the Sentry made a series of buzzes. Its neck grew longer, its head grew wider and finally, to the horror of Denmark and England, two long, multi-barrelled turrets sprouted out of its main body.

"Damn!" England and Denmark cursed as America swivelled the machine's head, manually firing at the two of them. They barely managed to duck behind two barriers, gritting their teeth in frustration. America, on the other hand was laughing, a depraved grin over his face. Firing continuously, a hail of bullets rushing at the scant pieces of cover that were England and Denmark's refuge, the Sentry Gun kept turning and beeping.

Then America was rudely called to attention by the sound of two blue capsules flying through the air. Gasping in horror, America leaped away, merely moments before the dummy bombs exploded, sending a fountain of rubber within inches of America's face.

"Sentry Gun disabled." Switzerland said. He pressed a button on a remote control, and the Sentry exploded into a myriad pieces of shrapnel. Reeling in horror, America whipped out a smaller toolbox this time.

"Dispenser going up!" he yelled. Reaching into his satchel, he grabbed the remaining pieces of metal and shoved them into the toolbox. It opened, revealing the framework of the Dispenser. But that was it- a few sparks, a momentary shudder, then it stalled. America had no metal left. He had no way of getting any more- England laid at least three stickybombs around the remnants of America's Sentry Gun. He could try opening the crates around him for metal, but with what? All the locks were unbreakable. He couldn't pick them either- most of them were a dull tone of red, rust slowly eroding them after years of disuse. Sinking backwards, he swore, sighing in desperation.

At the other end of the room, Denmark and England emerged from their corners, brandishing their weapons in their hands. A flamethrower, attached with a thick heatproof wire to a backpack. A four-barrelled grenade launcher in one hand, stickybomb launcher in another. The two faced off, boring holes into each other with their gazes.

Roaring, England shot four stickybombs forward, forming a barrier between him and Denmark. Unfazed, the Nordic ran, airblasting three of them at an angle. A split second later, they exploded harmlessly. There was one stickybomb left, though; one last stickybomb, less than thirty centimetres away from him. Mortified, Denmark leaped, but it was too late. The spiked sphere exploded, blasting him into a railing. Grunting in pain, he dragged his pained body onto his feet despite the protests of England, who claimed that he was yet again defeated. Switzerland defiantly shook his head.

Seconds later, with a savage yell, Denmark swung his axe. He missed, doing no harm to England, but it was enough. Taken aback by his fury, England jumped back, frantically firing a salvo of grenades at Denmark, who airblasted them away once more. Soon, Denmark stood in front of England, grinning to himself. England tried to fire some more, but his cartridges were depleted. Angrily, he tossed his weapons aside, took out an empty gin bottle, and growled as he held it, shaking it threateningly at Denmark. Laughing, Denmark brandished his axe, swinging it excitedly.

"Goodbye, England!" Denmark yelled, swinging the axe at England. This time, England was prepared, and dodged comfortably. Retaliating, the new Demoman swung his bottle at Denmark. The bottle shattered, sending a myriad of splinters of glass into Denmark's face. Yelping in pain, Denmark put his hands to his eyes, ignoring the drops of blood running down the cuts on his face. England brought the bottle down again, but only succeeded in splintering it further on the wooden handle of Denmark's axe. Lifting the halberd into the air and screaming, Denmark bore down on England- a one-metre-ninety behemoth of a man flailing his axe at the short, desperate man who only had a paltry gin bottle to defend himself. Grunting, England raised the bottle in one last attempt to kill Denmark.

"It's over, England!" Denmark screamed.  
"Yes, for you, you bloody git!" England screamed.

Suddenly, a shot rang out, followed by a quick, stinging jolt of pain to England's back. Startled, the two men's eyes darted around. A second later, another shot was heard, and the same burst of pain was felt by Denmark.

"What?!" the two men exclaimed, rubbing the bruises on their bodies The cheery laugh of America burst out, leaving both England and Denmark growling, their faces red from fatigue and anger. America stared at their outraged expressions and laughed even more as he affectionately stroked the barrel of his shotgun.

"Game over. Winner: America. You two, latrine duty. Congratulations America, I'll make the appropriate arrangements as soon as I can."  
"Awesome!" America shouted. England and Denmark let out a sigh.  
"Now, clean up everything here. I expect to see an empty floor in five minutes."  
"Yes sir! Thanks!" America laughed. Singing, he packed up what was left of his toolboxes, and began to remove the empty cartridges and inert ammunition from the floor.  
"You two! Am I clear?!"  
"Yes, sir." England and Denmark moaned.

A few minutes later, Switzerland's phone rang. Clambering down from his post, he answered it, carefully peeling off the wrapper of a Lindt chocolate bar.

"Hello?" the man asked.  
"Switzerland, where are you?" the Administrator asked, her voice neither assertive nor sour, her usual indifference gone. Now she was alert.  
"The Mann Co. hangar. Is anything wrong?"  
"Yes, something is very wrong."

Sliding a thin piece of chocolate in between his lips, Switzerland gestured for her to carry on. About five minutes later, he finished the chocolate, put down his phone and faced the three mercenaries, a grave look on his face.

"Pack your bags." Switzerland ordered.  
"What?!" England asked.  
"But we just got here? What's the deal, Switz?!" Denmark bellowed, wiping the blade of his axe.  
"Pack your bags and get the rest of the team. We leave at 2000 hours."  
"What're you talking about, you bloody wanker?" England snapped.  
"The REDs are coming, and they're coming soon. Go!"  
"Where to?" America demanded.  
"A place somewhere in the desert." Switzerland replied. Checking a small, rudimentary map in his hands, he went on.

"A place in the desert. A place called Badwater Basin."


End file.
